


Rituals

by moorehawke



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Food mention, Gen, bit of a character study, bit of a self-indulgent fic bc we watch the news at 7pm every night in my house and im homesick, bone app the teeth, creepy images but just. at the same level as normal tma, jon being a weirdo, michael being even more of a weirdo, pls excuse any stray 'john's in here i was battling autocorrect the whole time, together they are a singularity of weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22970233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moorehawke/pseuds/moorehawke
Summary: "Hello, Archivist," Michael had purred, leaning over the kitchen counter with his chin propped up in one hand. The tips of his razor-sharp fingers had reached up past his ears.Jon had put his plate down. "Michael." The being's grin had broadened at the acknowledgement. "To what do I owe this visit?" A quick glance to the right had told him a tape recorder was recording, sat stop a stack of files. He let it run."I was in the neighbourhood," Michael had said, mockingly, because they both knew that distance was not an issue for the Distortion, and neither was time. "I thought I'd see what the Eye's little pet does when it isn't at work."
Relationships: Michael & Jonathan Sims
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121





	Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be longer but I got tired and I thought "fuck it, it's as good as it needs to be" so. fuck it, it's as good as it needs to be.

He didn't really know when it had started.

No, that was a lie, he knew exactly when. It had started on the 23rd of August, a cool, crisp late summer's day, at exactly 7pm. The chiming belltower of the church across the way had rung out its tune just as Jon had turned back from the stove, dinner in hand, and seen him.

"Hello, Archivist," Michael had purred, leaning over the kitchen counter with his chin propped up in one hand. The tips of his razor-sharp fingers had reached up past his ears. 

Jon had put his plate down. "Michael." The being's grin had broadened at the acknowledgement. "To what do I owe this visit?" A quick glance to the right had told him a tape recorder was recording, sat stop a stack of files. He let it run.

"I was in the neighbourhood," Michael had said, mockingly, because they both knew that distance was not an issue for the Distortion, and neither was time. "I thought I'd see what the Eye's little pet does when it isn't at work."

"I'm not an 'it'."

Michael had laughed, a tinkling, aching thing, and Jon had tasted copper on his tongue. "Not yet you're not."

He let that one slide and picked up his plate. "Well if you must know, I'm about to eat dinner." He looked down at his meal, then at Michael, who was still grinning. "Can I, uh… get you anything?"

"Nothing you wouldn't rather keep, I'm sure."

Sticking to his usual routine had proven tricky with the stuff of nightmares looking over his shoulder, but he'd managed it. He'd made himself a cup of tea, sat down on the sofa with his plate on his lap, and turned on the news. Michael had sat himself down on the sofa beside him, an obvious look of contentment on his face. "Wouldn't have thought you'd be one for factual reporting," Jon had said, gesturing at the headlines.

"Facts? No, no, dear Archivist." Michael had strummed his too-long, too-fragmented fingers in front of his face gleefully and chuckled. Jon tasted blood. "I'm interested in the _lies."_

Jon had shrugged and gone back to his meal, one eye tuned to the BBC report unfolding before him.

When at last it was over, he had turned to see the sofa next to him empty, with no sign that anyone - or any _thing_ \- had been there at all.

He'd thought this to be a one-time occurrence, and indeed Michael stayed out of his home for almost a week after that. But then, one night, he'd gone to open the sliding door to his pantry and found it replaced by another. He sighed, braced himself, and opened it. 

"Archivist," Michael stepped into his kitchen. Jon backed up, slamming the door closed with his foot before it could pull him through. Michael looked at it as it merged sickeningly back with the pantry.

"Couldn't you just leave those things outside?"

"No," Michael said, in a tone that told him he very much could if he wished. "I want to watch the news, Archivist."

"News doesn't start until seven."

"Hmm." Michael looked at the clock, and suddenly Jon's head felt unbearably heavy. There was a buzzing in his ears, like a low note just below the edge of his hearing, uncomfortably loud and yet somehow not there at all. He felt himself tilt sideways. Then all at once it was gone, and he could focus again.

The first thing he noticed was that Michael had caught him seemingly as he'd slumped to the side, and his strange, sharp fingers had cut through the sleeve of his shirt. The second thing he noticed was that the clock, which had previously read 5:20, was now showing seven o'clock. He heard the bells chime in the cathedral across the street.

"What did you just do?" Jon said, pulling back.

"It's seven o'clock," Michael said, unperturbed. "The news is on."

"Did you just- _put me to sleep?"_

"Archivist, I want to watch the news."

Jon tried not to shudder at the idea of being unresponsive and defenceless in front of Michael for over an hour. He turned the tv on. 

And so began a routine. Michael would show up sometime in the evening - at first he’d started by merging directly through a part of Jon's kitchen, but then, when he realised this slowed down dinner and therefore the news, he started appearing in the dining room instead - and wait, either patiently or impatiently, for Jon to sit down and turn on the tv. Once it started, he would curl up at one end of the sofa like a contented and incredibly angular cat, and watch until it was done. Jon never saw him leave.

"Why don't you just turn the tv on yourself?" Jon asked one day after Michael had whined at him for taking too long. In response, Michael simply pressed a finger to the edge of the screen and watched as the black turned into a swirling, hypnotic spiral. Jon felt himself tilt sideways looking at it before snapping back to reality when Michael stepped away and let the screen go blank again.

"Right." Jon said. "That's a fair reason, I guess." He picked his plate up off the counter and made his way to the sofa.

"I think Michael liked television," Michael mused as he sat down, and Jon jumped at how close he suddenly was, pressing him up against the armrest and somehow still paying him no heed, staring at the dark screen. "Of course, _I_ am Michael, and _I_ like television, but I think perhaps that before I was Michael, Michael liked television." 

Jon nodded mutely and picked up the remote. Somehow, this little tidbit of information felt powerful, like Michael had just given him his life story. Jon felt like he could run a mile.

Michael didn't speak again that evening, and by the time the investigative reports were done he was gone.

  
  


"Jon, are you even listening to me?"

Jon, who had decidedly not been listening, ran a hand over his face. Tim fixed him with a glare. "Sorry, Tim. You were saying?"

"I was _saying_ we need to get someone in to fix the waterproofing in the main archive. Your bloody statements are useless if they've rotted through before they can be read." 

Jon nodded absently. "Fine, I'll talk to Elias about it." He didn't want to talk about this right now. Didn't want to _be here._ His head ached a dull, throbbing tempo that drummed on the inside of his skull in a sick heartbeat rhythm.

His tv had been broken for a week. That was a week without news, and notably without Michael, as though he'd somehow been able to sense the change. An 'end-of-year stocktake' - Elias' words, not his - had halted recordings until the files were reshuffled. Jon had absolutely no idea how that was supposed to work. Elias had said he was doing it himself, which no doubt meant he would leave the archives in even more of a disjointed mess than before. Chronological order was out of the question, but maybe they'd be sorted by Fear. That would be some use, at least.

Either way, Jon hadn't had the chance to really absorb any decent _truth_ in a while, and it was starting to wear on him. He constantly felt drained, like he'd just run a marathon, and his joints ached like he was recovering from an injury, or suffering from dehydration. "I should go," he said, getting up from his desk. Home, bed, _sleep._

Tim folded his arms across his chest. "Fine. Go do whatever it is you do these days, eat babies or suck people's A-levels out their brains with a straw or whatever the fuck. I'll be here. _Working."_

Jon waved a vague hand at him as he turned and made his way out of the room. "See you on Thursday," he said, knowing without asking that Tim was planning on calling in sick on Wednesday to visit his cousin, and then grimaced as he felt the weight of a furious stare on the back of his neck until the door closed.

Outside it was raining, a slow, persistent drizzle. Jon took two steps before realising he'd left his umbrella in the office. He sighed and considered going back, but decided against it. Tim would probably see it as some kind of win, and besides, it was already getting dark. If he went back now he would make it home until long after sunset. Instead, he flicked his coat collar up in a weak attempt at keeping himself dry and walked on.

The hunger - that wasn't quite what it was but he didn't have any better names for it - dragged at him as he made his way through the city. Twice a stranger with an interesting past turned his head and he had to stop himself from Asking them something. This wasn't something he'd had to deal with until recently and he hated that feeling, like _he_ was one of the monsters worthy of a statement. The second time it happened he ducked into an alleyway to avoid getting too close, breathing heavily and watching his breath drift like steam in the cold air.

There was a door behind the bins opposite him.

"Hello, Archivist," came a familiar, echoing voice.

"Michael. What are you doing here?"

"You're hungry."

Jon chose to ignore that. Michael was grinning down at him like a benign serial killer, someone who wasn't planning on killing him but might just anyway without thinking. "It's raining," Jon remarked needlessly, watching droplets slide down the waves of Michael's hair. They dropped from his fingers like blood from a knife. "Aren't you cold?"

"You're changing the subject, Archivist," Michael said, his grin growing wider. He looked on the verge of laughter. Jon hoped he'd refrain; his was his favourite coat and he didn't much like the idea of getting blood on it. "You need to feed."

"So what if I do?" He snapped. "That's none of your business."

"I'm here to propose a trade."

Jon glared, suspicious. "What kind of a trade?"

"I've been told a truth from the Distortion is something of a delicacy." Elias' words, for sure. Jon thought back to the sentence or two Michael had thrown his way a few weeks ago. It had been a mere scrap, the equivalent of half a bite of stale bread, but it had felt like a full meal. Michael was saying he could have that again, and more besides.

But a truth from the Distortion? It was the perfect oxymoron. John looked hard at Michael, grinning in the rain, hair plastered to his face. "What do you want for it?"

"Oh, nothing much." A widening smile, three or four newly revealed teeth. "I would like to distort _you."_

"What?"

"Nothing too drastic, of course. A few fingers would do. An elbow, perhaps?" He looked hopeful.

"To… distort."

"Yes."

Jon looked at Michael's fingers, at Michael's too-wide grin, at his unnerving yellow eyes. He knew Michael a lot better these days, but he still didn't trust this, didn't trust this at all. He knew without thinking that when Michael _distorted_ people it was the kind of thing that landed you in hospital or dead, without fail. Images of fingers curled back on themselves in sickening spirals and ribs branching like antlers came unbidden to his mind, and he almost retched. No, he wouldn't do this. Surely he wasn't that desperate.

But it was at that moment that an elderly woman passed by the alleyway. Jon stiffened automatically, like a cat scenting a mouse, and Michael watched him with amused eyes. She'd fought in a war and seen Death firsthand, and he lurched to the side in an unthinking attempt to pull that story from her. He made it half a step before he tripped over a loose tile in the paving and had to break his gaze to catch himself. 

He got himself under control in time to see her cross behind the next building. Her eyes were pale, skin thin and brittle. She wouldn't have survived what he had been about to do.

John turned back to Michael. "Would it be permanent?" He asked. "The distortion. Would it be permanent?"

"Define _permanent_." Michael said. Jon sensed that that was all the answer he would get.

Jon thought carefully. He needed both his legs, that was for sure. No use being in his line of work if he couldn't run for his life. He considered his fingers, but he needed it to be something inconspicuous - he didn't want the others asking questions. An internal organ, maybe? No, he needed to be sure he'd survive this.

Finally, it came to him. "A dream," he said. "You can distort one of my dreams."

Michael giggled with glee. "Oh, _Archivist,"_ he said. "What a wonderful choice."

  
  
  


STATEMENT OF THE BEING CALLING ITSELF 'MICHAEL', 12TH OF JANUARY 2020. STATEMENT TAKEN DIRECT FROM SUBJECT.

STATEMENT BEGINS:

Sometimes, when I am alone, I like to make doors that lead to nowhere places. The Sahara desert is my _favourite._ The heat that burns, the dunes that are always changing, and the _mirages,_ Archivist, the _mirages_ I have seen.

There is one mirage I like to make myself. I call it the Calling. I used it on a tourist group once, what fun that was! They were so excited to see a real camel herder inviting them in for tea, and so scared when they saw what I really was. I hurt one with my fingers. I think they said in the news that it was a jackal bite. Another went through a door. I let her stay there for days. She was screaming by the time I finally came to kill her.

There is a mirage that is _not_ mine, of a city on a hill. I think perhaps the city belongs to the Lonely. I walked there once. I don't know how far it was, or how long it took. Questions like that don't tend to occur to me these days, now that I am Michael and Michael is me. The city was big and white, and once I was there I found it quite hard to leave without my doors. There were a few people there. They scrambled around the paved paths like rats in a maze. They were all very happy to see me, at first. They were all very tasty, in the end.

I imagine that the Lonely and the Spiral could work very well together, if we so chose. To be trapped alone in a prison of one's own mind is far better than simply being _without others._ What a shame that the Lonely is so determined to ally itself with you. The Eye and the Spiral are not exactly the most compatible, I'm sure you would agree, Archivist.

The word is that the Lonely wants something the Eye has. And your Elias has _so_ many connections. Even to those who don't make friends, or even acquaintances. I'm sure you'll so enjoy getting to know Lukas. And I'm sure he'll enjoy not getting to know you.

  
  


Jon snapped out of his careful, watchful reverie as Michael finished speaking. "What do you mean?" He asked. "Is the Lonely planning something?" He'd never met an avatar of the Lonely before, only read about it in statements. Endless towns, suddenly quiet crowds, empty spaces where there should be… something. The idea unsettled him. 

"Now, now, Archivist," Michael said, leaning down to his eye level. "You've had your fill. Let me have mine." 

Jon went to protest - a truth was one thing, but he couldn't _not_ follow up on information relevant to the Archives - but Michael nearly tapped the side of his head, lightly, just once with his fingers. Before Jon knew anything about it, he was gone.

  
  


The space was… dark, at first. The kind of darkness you get just after turning out a light, when you know you _should_ be able to see something but your eyes haven't yet adjusted to the change. Slowly, shapes resolved themselves in his vision, swimming into hazy view. 

They were faces.

They looked _strange,_ eyes stretched just too wide and mouths somehow out of place. They were bathed in a sickly blue-green. Behind them, something was shifting, moving between the faces, tiny black dots like beetles, or maybe ants. Jon tried to move closer, to _see,_ but every time he approached, they skittered away. He focused instead on the faces, marching like a procession past him. As they passed, they _changed,_ and he found himself looking at animals he didn't recognise, masses of wet fur and teeth. He watched them stretch like wet clay into new and unfamiliar shapes, and felt sick.

This was a dream, he reminded himself as he watched the shapes move, unrecognisable in their torment. This was a dream and he was safe. The black dots behind the faces shifted again. And then, suddenly, he was falling, as if gravity had swiveled ninety degrees. The dim glow of the faces receded and was replaced with- with-

Nothing. Nothing at all. Jon strained his eyes to see what might be coming his way next but all that was there was an endless sea of black. He reached an arm out only to find it back by his side as though he'd never moved at all. He tried to kick, to twist around, but each time he blinked he'd come instantly back to how he'd been. No delay, no movement, just him. Rearranged. He tried again, and wondered if his arms were even moving in the first place. It felt like his fall was speeding up, as if something were pushing him endlessly downwards, and in a moment of panic he wondered if he even was falling 'down' at all. What would he hit at the bottom? 

Time passed, or he assumed it did. More than minutes. Maybe hours. Hopefully not days. His eyes started to invent things in the black that stretched out before him, impossibly-coloured shapes and figures in his peripheral vision that disappeared when he looked straight at them. He tried to look ahead, over his shoulder, to see-

And then, all at once, the falling stopped. He was sitting at his desk, tape recorder in front of him, and it felt for all intents and purposes like he'd been sitting there for hours. He thought about the time Michael had put him to sleep. Maybe he _had_ been there for hours. In the corner of the room, his umbrella was leaning against the wall.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. He was back. He pinched his arm once or twice, just to be sure. In front of him, the tape recorder was centred on the desk, and next to it lay a statement, carefully typed into slightly yellowed paper.

He picked it up.

YOU'RE LOST YOU'RE LOST _you're LOST YOU'RE_ **_LOST YOU'RE LOST YOU'RE LOST_ ** **_YOU'RE-_ **

He jerked back with a gasp and tried to drop the paper, but he couldn't move his hand.

YOU'RE LOST **YOU'RE LOST** _YOU'RE-_

This wasn't right. This wasn’t _right._ He ripped the paper from his fingers with his teeth, dry parchment coating his tongue, and spat it onto the floor. The noise subsided, but an undercurrent of gleeful, off-kilter terror remained.

“Michael!” Jon yelled. “Michael, this is _enough.”_

_Oh, just a little more, Archivist._ The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once. _Who really knows where time goes in dreams?_ The floor gave way again, but this time to a strange, spiralling gap in the floor. John fell into it hard, the corners and edges of faceted spirals bruising his shins and cutting through the fabric of his jacket. He struggled, and slid down further. The rock was smooth one way and rough the other, like it had a grain worn into it, and when he tried to pull his way out, his clothes caught on invisible snags. 

The hole pulled him down, feet scrabbling for purchase, and as he fell he spun, turned around and around until he didn’t know which way was which any more. The gap above him stretched upwards, but then after a while seemed to turn, so that what had shown the roof of the office now only showed stone. He felt the bones of his legs start to creak as they were forced into the curves.

A spiral edge sliced into his ankle, and he sucked in a breath, pulling away, but this just pushed him into another sharp stone. He struggled, and panicked, and all that did was make it worse until-

The stone turned to water, and he was standing in the rain.

He was _drenched._ Of course he was, he’d left his umbrella at the office, and now he’d have to walk home without it, and-

“Michael!”

That eerie chuckle that set his teeth on edge. _Sorry, Archivist. I couldn’t resist._

And then he was awake.

Jon gasped in a lungful of air like a man drowned, hands scrabbling for purchase. They met Michael’s shoulders, all points and bone, and gripped. _“Never,”_ Jon said. _“Never do that again.”_

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Michael smiled his too-wide smile. He lifted John to his feet by the elbow, sharp fingers cutting neat lines in his jumper. A door grew from the wall beside him, and he opened it.

"Let's go home," he said. "The news is on."


End file.
